Dead and Gone

Can you tell me how he rests,
Flowers, growing o’er him there?
His a right warm heart, my sweets,--
So, cover it with care.

Can you tell me how he lies
Such nights out in the cold,
O cricket, with your plaintive call,
O glow-worm, with your gold?

If my eyes are sorrowful,
Well may they weep, I trow,--
Since his dead eyes gazed into them,
They have been sad enow.

If my heart make moan and ache,
Well may it break, I’m sure--
For his dead love is more, ah me!
More than it can endure.